


Aziraphale Wiggled

by Quannon



Series: Good Omens Character Studies [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quannon/pseuds/Quannon
Summary: These are a few of Crowley’s favorite things.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Character Studies [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564321
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Aziraphale Wiggled

**Author's Note:**

> Brief mentions of violence but nothing graphic. Not a favorite thing.
> 
> Slice of After life (established relationship)

Crowley closed his eyes. It worked better with his eyes closed. If he thought carefully and blocked out distractions, he could see the detail in the poofy lace that Aziraphale had worn at his throat while waiting in that Paris cell for his execution. The creamy matte whiteness of it counterpointing the white blond glow of his hair. Like pearls on silver. The faint golden glow of his face added a bit of glory as if it were needed after his eyes. It’s a wonder that French executioner hadn’t noticed anything. 

Crowley could see it all swimming up to the surface in increasing detail. The fine lines in Aziraphale’s rosy lips forming his prim little Pursed Pout as he’d turned toward Crowley’s voice. It was his disapproving pout, not his ‘I can’t believe’ you pout. The giveaway was the Angel’s eyes flicking down then up just before speaking. Crowley was such a sucker for that pout. He done a full day’s hard riding on a horse to get back to Paris when he’d heard about the Englishman to be guillotined … just for the possibility of seeing those lips form that pout. After pondering Aziraphale’s lips for a moment, Crowley remembered how he had looked at him with those sparking blue eyes and said, “Oh good Lord” like he wasn’t glad to see him. As if! Crowley could only hear the Angel’s small gasp and his heartbeat quicken from all the way over at the door. The Angel liked acting even if he was shite at it.

Will, now, couldn’t act. Not like Burbage. Will was the ghost; ol’ Dick was Hamlet. Aziraphale was … the entire audience. And he had given it his all too. Played different audience participants; cheering out encouragement in his limited voice repertoire to make the audience seem larger. Mostly this meant his own voice was very slightly varied in pitch or cadence coupled with some truly awful understanding of the local vernacular. But the Angel was convinced he was a master at the magic of impersonation. Ha! Crowley had heard him ‘acting’ as he strode away from the theater. Such enthusiasm for that wretched play. Crowley bet Will regretted asking the Angel to help out … or more likely Burbage made Will regret it. Of course then there had been that stray comment about the miracle. And Aziraphale did that thing with his eyes: opened wide and looking at Crowley’s lips with little crinkles in his forehead and his mouth soft. How could Crowley say no? And he strongly suspected that the Angel knew exactly how it affected him. If he had any acting skills, it was in coercing Crowley to do things. Heaven, he didn’t even like the gloomy ones. No… no. Wrong on so many levels.

‘No’ .. that was a word. It was a multi-purpose word for the Angel. Crowley used “fuck” the same way. Versatile. Good hard gutterals when he wanted them. “No” had more ethereal dipthong opportunities. “No, you can’t discorporate me! There’ll be paperwork!” a short bark; no sliding. It was true anquish over heavenly forms that probably came in gossamer fourplicate tissue paper that not even a miraculous pen could press through. “No, I won’t work with you!” a small slide (a quick nuh-oh); was a request for Crowley to find something he could say “yes” to. That ‘no’ kept him on his toes. The Angel could be a real challenge to tempt when he wanted to be. When he said that kind of ‘no’, he wouldn’t help at all. No hints. And he would bring out his ‘I mean business’ mouth because he was being firm. (This mouth was characterized by flat lined lips, eyes slightly narrowed and not looking directly at Crowley so that the Angel’s forehead was smooth but his eyelids a little heavy. He punctuated this at some point with the two handed virtual push back.) But the request part was emphasized because he didn’t leave. Bastard. Eventually Crowley would find something food related. Or make it sound like something Gabriel would have thought of (if Gabriel actually thought – oh god, now he was off to woodchucks). Right .. back. But he couldn’t go to either of these solutions right off the bat. If he did, Aziraphale couldn’t pretend he wasn’t being manipulated. Crowley had his pride and so did the Angel, although he called it self-respect. Ha!

Crowley moved slightly to ease a cramp but immediately regretted it.

Then there was ‘Nooooooo!’ long slide. Possibly variations in all the oo’s. Like saying it through a mouthful of something scrumpdilly-icious. This ‘no’ came out when the Angel was truly charmed by something and his lips all plumped up into a little moue. “Nooooo, you remembered!” (Like Crowley was going to go and forget what Aziraphale cared about.. well .. maybe once. OK .. twice but it was an accident.) or “Nooooo, that scroll survived?” Or “Nooooo, you still have that rose I gave you that time?” This one had the reverse ‘I mean business’ mouth where he was being soft, not firm. (Recently, things might have changed to soft, then firm, but that’s nobody’s business but theirs.) It also usually involved that other thing with his eyes. They went all soft focus and shimmery and looked right at him with little crinkles at the corners. This ‘no’ was worth dying for. Well dying after he got to appreciate it. Dying before then would be a waste really.

Waste of a good waist. Crowley opened one eye and shut it again. There was entirely too much bright light without his sunglasses.

Aziraphale didn’t exactly have a waist: a place in his middle that was narrower than his shoulders or his hips. But he didn’t need one either. He had something better! Aziraphale had a nice tummy which was a little corporation all in its own right. Just one of the many times it came in handy was when they were on the sofa in the bookshop on hazy, lazy rainy afternoons. The Angel would have the lamps on, cocoa close to hand, and the chosen book for the day’s reading on the table. In winter there would be a small, bright fire in the fireplace (courtesy of himself so that he could be sure that the fire knew better than to leave the confines of the pocket dimension he miracled against the wall for it). Crowley liked to put his head against the Angel’s tummy when Aziraphale read to him. A soft, welcoming place that he could turn his face into and pretend to listen while actually being lulled to sleep with the Angel’s soft voice. They would be on that awful tartan sofa of his. Crowley could even put up with Oscar Wilde if the Angel carded his fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp.

Cards! His abominable card tricks! The Angel had no misdirection in him (see acting capabilities). But as awful and embarrassing as the tricks he performed were, Crowley loved to watch his hands flutter around him like the birds he resurrected. As though that would make him believe there was nothing up Aziraphale’s sleeve besides his arm … and the card shooter ... and the handkerchief … and possibly a pigeon or at least a bouquet. The Angel always beamed joyous delight with his ‘magic’. As much as Crowley wished he would actually get better with all of the practice, he would never get over watching the Angel’s face light up as he thought he had successfully (and mysteriously) pulled the rabbit out of the hat. 

Crowley tried to move his legs but the bindings hurt too much.

Hats. Aziraphale looked very dashing in hats. Turban things not so much. The metal ones, oh yeah helmets, not so much either. They hid too much. Hard to look good with a grill over your face. All that time at the Round Table, bleh. He could hear the Angel now, “Metal suits are not stylish!” But hat hats were good. There was a very nice Tudor flat cap the Angel wore with an exotic grey fluffy feather flopping over his left ear when he went to Henry Coppernose’s court. It was maroon velvet and brought out the blue of his eyes. And then there was that Chinese black hat with a red turned up brim and long black plume sticking out behind. It was a court official’s winter hat that he wore in the 1800s when they were there for the Opium Wars. It had a red tassle and a point on top. Somehow it had suited him … the style not the point he grimaced inwardly. Well maybe the point too if it was a commentary on Gabriel. The Angel had orders to support the Qing Dynasty’s ban on opium over the British Empire’s desire to sell it to them. He himself had been stirring up the British about the rights of free trade and the injustice of the Chinese sinking the British opium ship. Funny old Ineffable Plan. In his opinion everyone lost. He and the Angel had gotten together once or twice and commiserated about all the suffering. Crowley didn’t say anything but he suffered too when the Angel put that hat back on to leave. Hats!! 

The best hat … the very best hat was the cream-camel-beige-ish fedora he wore in the church that one time. Too bad he had only been able to hear the shocked ‘No!’ when Aziraphale discovered Rose Montgomery had duped him and not seen the Angel’s face when he said it. Those ‘nos’ were always fun to watch. Like the Angel had seen too many silent movie with their exaggerated facial expressions. Cinematographic. Mmmm. Worth the burned feet just to see him in that hat. 

Burned. Not an Aziraphale word. Crowley thought about that. Crunched on it to see what was inside. Oh.. he almost had it. He opened the other eye this time. Hastur. What the fuck was Hastur doing in his dream about the Angel? (See, he digressed .. versatile work ‘fuck’.) Fuck!! Hastur!!! (moving from querulous emphasis to extreme pique). 

He opened both eyes and remembered. That fuckin’ Hastur had gotten a human to snag him from his walk back from the bakery with those new tarts the Angel wanted to try and inject him into this Fuckin’ Summoning Circle in the Far End of Nowhere. And, he’d had the Fuckin’ AUDACITY to use hell bindings to tie him down to this Fuckin’ Table! He began to try to squirm out of the restraint and immediately stopped. Not just a table. Not just bindings. These felt like they were from Abaddon’s personal collection. A bit of icy fear shivered through Crowley’s heart and he remembered why he was dreaming or, more accurately, dissociating.

The Angel was always rabbiting on about fucking ‘connection’. (Here fuck is said softly, affectionately, dissociated Crowley thought.) An Invisible Fucking Silver Thread (dissociated Crowley acknowledged that he’d added the exasperated fuck to Aziraphale’s phrase) connecting them through space and time and possibly even through the M25 at rush hour. The Angel maintained that he would be able to find Crowley anywhere. Fuck me, he prayed. Adam please make the Invisible Fucking Silver Thread Connection real ….. (dissociated Crowley noticed the fervor in the prayer fucks) … I’ll buy you and Dog all the fucking 39 Flavors ice cream you want!!! (dissociated Crowley checked the box next to ‘good restaurant review’).

Crowley closed his eyes and tried to go back to the dream of Azirphale; hoping against hope that if he thought about him hard enough that the Angel actually could find him. As it was, he’d run out of all escape options right before he tried dissociation.

And then … seeping in around the corners of the room … were soft violent crashes. Soft because they might be far away. Crashes because, well, they sounded like crashes. Like cars crashing into things. Whining of metal bending. A whump/bang/tinkle? As possibly something wooden exploded into a million toothpicks. Whump as something very heavy hit the ground.

There was a pause. No one moved. Crowley couldn’t and Hastur seemed to just start vibrating in place. A tuning fork in B flat.

Then it started all over again but louder; closer.

Pause.

Louder yet; closer yet.

Pause, but faint stomp stomp stomp? Stomping? 

Pause. Right at the room’s door. Crowley could see it. A metal affair with rust and probably squeaking hinges but looked solid all the same.

Pa-bonggggggg!! Pa-bongggggg! And a final pa-bonggg! And the door came off it’s hinges and whumped flat on the floor.

The air puffed up with dust-fog and the oxygen seemed to have been blown out of the room.

When the dust settled enough that shapes could be determined, Hastur was looking open mouthed at the door. Not moving at all. To be fair, he couldn’t move as Aziraphale had reached out with a wing and pinned him to the far wall.

Crowley properly opened both eyes. There was the Angel in modified true form to fit in this location. Oh .. he was mad!!!. Crowley had never seen him angry; really angry. He had at least two dozen eyes glaring at Hastur who was legitimately wondering if looks could kill. Or flay. The other two dozen eyes were all fixed on Crowley with a soft, soft crinkle of concern. One of Aziraphale’s many mouths asked in a lovely, melodic voice that conveyed the full breadth and depth of the Angel’s heart, “Are you all right my dear?” Crowley could only nod yes. A wing stretched out to cover him protectively for what was about to happen next.

One of the Angel’s other mouths spoke in an echoing booming voice much too large for the confined space, “Hastur, Duke of Hell, confess your sins. Why have you imprisioned the demon known as Crowley in direct contradiction of Infernal Order 616 Section 3.1 paragraph 415926535 enacted and signed by Lord Beelzebub themself and countersigned by the Holy Archangels Gabriel and Michael?”

Crowley almost could not bear all the new Aziraphale sensations. There .. right there .. was the Power Pout that Aziraphale brought out to suggest, without actually speaking, that it would behoove Crowley do something Right Now! Forehead smooth, eyes wide, lips parted. Except that this time it was directed at Hastur with an intensity Crowley had never seen before. This Power Pout (rated capitalized for Intensity) held no ‘notes of love and affection with a sweet, complex finish’. This pout was strong and spicey, smokey and clean. No complexity at all. Just pure … Determination. The Angel meant Business. Crowley was awestruck. His soft, fussy Angel … was still … the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Soldier of God.

Hastur had no sense of subtlety or nuance. He spluttered while pinned and squirmed and tried to turn into maggots. The Angel stopped all that nonsense with a snap of his fingers on one of his many hands. Then Hastur tried whining and sneering and pointed out that Crowley had killed Ligur. He finally stuttered to a stop as he recognized that Aziraphale was not buying any of his arguments. At the same time, it dawned on him that he was on his own here at the bottom of an abandoned American 1950s nuclear warhead silo complex with nothing but a human’s summoning circle, Abaddon’s paraphernalia already in use, and an Angel of the Lord in full smiting mode. He stilled for a moment and looked carefully around for the flaming sword.

Crowley watched while Aziraphale brought out the big guns to lend weight to his moral argument: He did a whole new thing with his 24 eyes looking at Hastur. They all narrowed to the point that they looked like laser beams, skewering him to the wall. The moldy fabric in Hastur’s coat began to smoke a little. “Hastur, Duke of Hell, I will return you to whence you came with all of your goods. However, if I ever see you again, I shall immediately smite you on the spot. If I hear that you have instigated anything against either Crowley or myself I will track you down and smite you on the spot. If you convince anyone else to instigate anything against either Crowley or myself, I will boil you in Holy Water and smite you on the spot. Do we understand each other?”

Hastur had the good sense to not try to speak but merely nod his head. His eyes were wide and drool escaped the left side of his mouth.

“Excellent!” The eyes each stayed narrowed but a hint of a satisfied smile creeped in at their corners. Aziraphale snapped his fingers on several hands at once. Suddenly Hastur was on Abaddon’s table with the bindings holding him down and Crowley was by Aziraphale’s side held up by at least two strong arms. “One last thing.” Aziraphale reached out with a wing and touched Hastur’s forehead. He yelped once but then it was done. As the wing retracted to Aziraphale’s body, Crowley could see that the number 616/S3.1/P415926535 was written on his forehead.

Hastur looked up at him wildly.

“Say goodbye, Hastur.” Aziraphale snapped again and Hastur and the ‘borrowed’ equipment disappeared. Too much cinematographic exposure, Crowley thought dreamily.

The Angel turned to his Demon and cradled him safely in his arms and covered him with his wings. “Let’s go home, my dear.” Snap!

*******  
Far away in Tadfield, Adam smiled to himself. He had never liked Hastur. He began to plan a trip to 39 Flavors.

*******  
After appearing back in the bookshop, it took Crowley a little time to recover. Hastur had never really gotten a chance to hurt him, but the whole episode was a lot. And he had questions.

Aziraphale parked Crowley on the sofa and checked him all over as though the demon wouldn’t tell him if he was hurt. To be fair, he probably wouldn’t, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that Crowley let him do it because, well, why not after the day he’d had? As good as a massage if he let out a small whimper here and there so the Angel kept looking for problems. But not as good as his plan for this evening. Good things come to those who wait (a less favorite Aziraphale-ism).

Finally reassured that his demon was fine, Azirphale stepped back from the sofa and slipped into something more comfortable (his corporation). “Well, apparently no harm done.” His smile was all warm and gooey and affectionate and Crowley couldn’t find a word in English to name it. Or Welsh or Scottish or Sumerian or Mayan. “Shall I get some nibbles and you can tell me all about it?”

He bustled off to the small kitchen making tea and setting out snacks on a plate. He then gathered his bounty up on a tray and returned to Crowley. He set it down on the side table, “What would you like, my dear?”

For a second, Crowley just took in his blue and cream and beige and gold and sparkly Angel and thanked … Whoever … that they were still here. Then Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and Crowley remembered his questions. “Oi, Angel, how did you find me? Record time finding that silo.” He smiled his lopsided smile and then quashed it. Can’t get sloppy here. He had a reputation even if the Angel ignored it.

“Oh! That was the strangest thing! I told you that we had a Connection. You never believe me, but I knew that we did! I knew something was wrong when you weren’t right back from the bakery. I tried to find you and finally worked out that you were in the America’s.” He paused and reached out to squeeze Crowley’s hand. “There is a Silver Thread. You have to believe me now.” He smiled just a tad smugly and then went on. “I did have a little trouble finding your exact location but suddenly it started to become clearer. I must have finally ‘homed in’ on it as the military people say! Before you could say Bob’s your Uncle I just knew right where you were. Although there was some ridiculous impression of ice cream. No ice cream that I could see in an abandoned nuclear missile silo.” He frowned for a minute but then his expression cleared. “Hardly matters. I found you!” He beamed.

Crowley choked for a minute but recovered. Actually, it was good to know that someone listened to him when he prayed. He raised his hands up, palms facing the Angel in a gesture of ‘you win’. “Ok ok. I’ll say less things about the Connection.” Nothing about Adam was going to escape his lips on pain of Holy Water. 

Aziraphale made to turn back to the snacks when Crowley remembered his other question. “How did you exchange me for Hastur across the summoning circle? That was bloody brilliant by the way.” He smiled indulgently at him.

Aziraphale paused to preen a little before turning back. “Oh, I just thought about Adam’s trick with the lemon sherbert. I thought if I made the trade quickly enough it would be fine, like pulling the table cloth out from under things. And it was!” He looked off to the side, contemplating the miracles of magic with a slight sigh. He best trick ever! And Crowley had seen it!

Suddenly the Angel remembered what had been going on before all this happened. “Oh the tarts!” Aziraphale wailed. “All the tarts!”

Crowley burst into hysterical laughter. Another one of his favorite things: the ability to focus on elusive edibles in the face of disaster or at least inconvenient discorporation. He almost wished he’d been bringing back crepes. 

Aziraphale looked at him reproachfully with the “I can’t believe you pout” and that eventually morphed into the “You’d better do something right now!” pout as Crowley fought to get himself under control. Finally, he gasped for useless breath and downed a half of cup of tea. Then he reached into the air and pulled out the bag he’d been carrying when Hastur’s dupe had summoned him. He’d had just enough time to stash it away. Silently, because he didn’t trust his voice yet, he handed it over to the Angel’s brilliant expression with the tarts inside as warm and fresh as they had been hours ago.

“Oh, oh, thank you! We’ve both had quite the day.” Happily, he added them to the snack plate with barely disguised anticipation. He lifted the tray and offered it to Crowley who shook his head. 

“Not just yet Angel. Just the tea for now” and waited.

After everything that had happened, all of the drama, the review of many of his favorite things, the pleased surprise at Aziraphale’s arrival, the subsequent rescue, the very impressive list of things added to the Favorite Thing list, the comeuppance of Hastur and their triumphant return to the bookshop, Crowley felt he deserved what was about to happen and deserved to be able to view it unencumbered by his own plate of snacks. He settled back into the lumpy sofa, sipped some tea and waited … for his Very Favorite Thing of All.

“If you’re sure.” The Angel took the tray back and looked over the selection. Picking a strawberry/rhubarb delicacy, he set the tray down, closed his eyes, and took in the aroma. “Oh Crowley, this is going to be just scrumptious!” Then, as he raised the pastry to his mouth … Aziraphale wiggled.


End file.
